Chestnut Hill Reservoir

The geese have gone.
Gulls inhabit the islands of rock now.
And loons, launching out
across the water.
Their wing tips strike the surface,
leave double-rows of ripples.
The lake is dark, a bruise
beneath clouds
of the approaching storm.

Six beech trees
between the water and the road
have turned sudden gold,
the first to change.
I pick a leaf, turn it over
like a scrap of newsprint in my palm.
In the tip of the stem,
I can smell the summer’s end.
A scent like the gathering wind,
or the name of a friend
from years ago.

Appeared in Volume VIII Number 2, July 2001, of The Distillery Magazine.